Relic
by CaptAcorn
Summary: In which Owen Paris issues an invitation he should have made a long time ago. Story twelve from the Home Series


a/n: Please see acknowledgements under the first story in the series, **Fresh Start**. For your convenience, here's a list of the other stories:

1\. Fresh Start

2\. Running to the End

3\. Growing Pains

4\. Grounded

5\. Preferences

6\. Release

7\. Falling

8\. Support System

9\. The Hard Way Down

10\. Wintercaerig

11\. Coming to Terms

* * *

It was all so frustrating.

Forty years ago — hell, twenty years ago — Owen Paris would have been commanding this room. He would have been the one everyone wanted a few minutes with, the one they would all defer to. Instead, he'd been relegated to the back corner, abandoned here by a distracted ensign that was younger than his grandchildren, quietly fading into irrelevancy.

He should grateful to be here at all, he supposed. A week ago he'd still been in the hospital recovering from endocarditis — his doctors could have forbidden him to leave the house. Or Tom might have declined to make the trip to collect him and the various medical paraphernalia Owen now needed to cart around wherever he went, deciding it was too much trouble. But it was hard to be grateful when he couldn't even get up and cross the floor to get himself a drink — that damn ensign had left his walker on the other side of the room.

Old age: the final indignity. Some days it was balanced out by the perspective one inevitably acquires after almost eleven decades of life. Today was not one of those days.

"Dad? Do you need anything?"

Owen squinted up at his son, having to wait a beat for him to come into focus. Tom was holding a glass.

"What's that?"

"Oh," Tom replied, glancing at the drink in his hand. "It's champagne. But it's not synthehol — I brought a couple of bottles of the real stuff. Alcohol probably isn't OK with your-"

Owen stuck his hand out. "Give it here, son. I'm a hundred and nine years old. If one glass of champagne is enough to do me in, then so be it."

Years ago, Tom likely would have bristled at Owen's remark — he would have missed the note of self-deprecation and assumed his father was criticizing him for being presumptuous. His son would have stormed off in a sulk and Owen would have been left flummoxed and irritated. Now, though, Tom just grinned and placed the glass in his hand. "I guess I'll get myself a fresh one then."

And Owen was alone again.

These were the times he missed Julia the most — graduations, holiday parties, or in this case, a promotion ceremony. She'd been the extrovert, the one that circled the room, made sure people had what they needed. Julia would have picked out the perfect gift for Miral, would have been gushing over her great-grandbabies, would have chatted with her granddaughter's Klingon husband in his native language.

But she'd been gone over two years now, and had barely gotten to meet even the oldest of those babies. Owen still forgot sometimes, in the mornings. He would still wake up and reach for her, only to find the other side of the bed cold and empty.

He sipped from his champagne flute and regarded his son, his youngest. Although not so young anymore. Tom had put down his replacement glass of champagne and had taken his newest grandchild from his son-in-law. He was so at ease — baby cradled in one arm, gesturing animatedly at Shovar with the other. When Tom had been a boy, everyone had commented how he'd been the spitting image of Owen. But physical appearance aside, Tom was Julia's child through and through.

"Admiral Paris."

Owen looked up at the speaker. It was Tom's friend — the one from _Voyager_. Kept turning down promotions to stay in space. Captain… _Damn._ He was Joe's godfather, his ship was the _Sagan_ , but the man's name completely escaped him. "Captain," he said in greeting, gesturing at the chair next to him and hoping he could muddle through. "Nice of you to come today."

The other man took the offered seat. "I'm just glad the timing worked and I was planetside. I really wanted to be here — I've always felt like something of a mentor to Miral. Did you know she served under me when I had the command of the _Annan_?"

"I didn't." Did he, though? Was that another bit of minutiae that had drifted away without him noticing?

The other man gestured at Miral where she stood at the front of the room and smiled. "Maybe the best tactical officer I ever had. Once I got her to stop calling me 'Uncle Harry' in front of my first officer, anyway."

 _Kim! Harry Kim! Of course!_ Owen gave himself a mental pat on the back for being able to drag that piece of data out from the more opaque recesses of his brain. A fraction of his old confidence restored, he decided to inquire after what he'd heard about the man's latest mission. "You just got back from the Xanthon sector, right? I heard there was a bit of a dustup with the Nihonia. They can be touchy bastards. I had some issues with them myself, back when I was a captain."

Kim's smile grew stiff. "Uh… No, Admiral. I've never been to Xanthon. I just got back from the Mehondrian sector. Where we were studying rifts into the interfold layer? I don't think there are any Nihonia there."

Owen turned his face away. _Of course there aren't any Nihonia there. That's the other side of the damn quadrant. I_ know _that, for God's sakes. I just could have sworn someone said…_

"You must be very proud," Kim said, too loudly. As if his volume could erase Owen's error. "A granddaughter that's a captain at thirty-six-"

"Thirty-five," Owen corrected. "She earned the promotion last year, but took some time off because of the baby."

"Even more impressive, then. I'm sure your influence had something to do with it." He laughed. "God knows it wasn't her father's."

Owen didn't join in on Kim's laughter. "Her father was there for her nearly every day when she was growing up," he said. "Every child should be so lucky."

"Oh, of course," Kim hurried to say. "I didn't mean anything by it. Tom and I are always giving each other a hard time. I know he's a great dad."

"Both of her parents," Owen stressed. "Both of them did a wonderful job."

"Absolutely," Kim said. "Tom and B'Elanna are both terrific parents. I was just talking about Miral's Starfleet career. I'm sure you were instrumental in her development as an officer."

Owen watched Miral as she posed for a picture with her mother. They were spitting images of each other, Miral and B'Elanna. Oh, Miral's ridges were a bit less defined, and her face was often alight in a smile, whereas B'Elanna's tended to be more pensive, but they were more alike than not. Tom used to tell him and Julia about some of the epic battles that raged in their household during Miral's teenage years — his oldest granddaughter had had a tendency to be theatrical as a child — but the two women had come out on the other side closer than ever. Owen envied them that. It had taken him and Tom some fifteen years, not to mention seventy thousand lightyears, to learn to even be civil towards each other.

"Admiral?"

Owen realized it had been a long time since Kim had last spoken and he had yet to respond. "Do you have children, Captain? I don't remember."

"No, sir, I don't. Although I've always felt close to Miral and Joe. The next best thing, right?" Kim laughed. "Maybe even better. I got to be 'fun Uncle Harry' without any of the responsibility."

Owen nodded. He had wondered sometimes, over the years, if he hadn't found Julia — or perhaps it would be more accurate to say if Julia hadn't found him — if he would have been like Kim. Committed to the 'Fleet and nothing else. Refusing any promotion that might keep him planet bound. Flying further and further from Earth until it was just another M class planet. Would he have been happier that way? Flying at warp into the metaphorical sunset, instead of languishing alone in a cavernous house while everyone he cared about moved on without him?

It's not that he regretted his life with Julia. Of course not. One didn't regret a decades-long marriage or three children that had all (eventually) grown to be successful and happy. Except… maybe, privately, he did. It had been easier, hadn't it? Commanding a starship, solving diplomatic crises, investigating scientific puzzles. It had come naturally in a way that being a good husband and father never had. And now he wasn't a husband anymore, and he wasn't much needed as a father, either. There were compensations that came with having a family, things that balanced out the sacrifices you had to make in your career — this was a generally accepted fact by Terran society. But… you could never know what it was like, could you? To have never loved, to have never had a family of your own. You could never truly know which would have made your happier in the end.

Kim was still talking. "But as much as I'd like to take credit for inspiring some of Miral's accomplishments, you're the one that was her real hero."

Owen drained the last bit of champagne from his glass. It had an odd aftertaste, almost bitter. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying it, though. It must be him — one of the medications he was on, or maybe his taste buds were failing. Nothing really tasted as good as it used to, now that he thought about it. "I'm no one's hero," he said.

"How can you say that? You had an incredible career! The Kattaaki'en Treaty, the Xindi Accords, Pathfinder. Heck, you were partly responsible for getting _Voyager_ home when we did! You can't claim that didn't inspire Miral — hasn't made her want to walk in your footsteps."

"Perhaps," Owen said. "And now she can carry on the Paris legacy. The torch has been passed." It was all he had ever wanted: for one of his children (or grandchildren as it had turned out) to continue on in Starfleet as generations of Parises had before them. In the beginning, when he'd taken the Paris name, he'd done it for Julia. But it hadn't been long before it felt like it had always belonged to him, to feel the full weight of the history and responsibility that came with it. It hadn't been long at all before he, too, dreamed that the name Paris would continue in the 'Fleet long after he was gone.

So why did the realization of that dream now feel so hollow?

Owen fiddled with the delicate flute in his hands, wishing he could get up and walk away from Kim and this conversation. His fingers were clumsy now, though, and the glass fell to the floor. "Damn!"

Kim knelt to the floor in an instant. "I'll get it," he said with a smile. "At least the floor's carpeted. No harm done."

"You don't have to talk to me like I'm an infant," Owen snapped before he could stop himself. At least he managed to quell the urge to kick the glass out of Kim's reach.

Kim stood slowly, the dropped glass in hand and his eyes wide. "Admiral, I didn't mean any offense—"

But before he could finish his response, Tom reappeared. "Miri's looking for you, Har. Shop talk."

Kim excused himself with an uneasy smile and went to join the crowd of 'Fleet brass that currently had Miral surrounded. Tom claimed the newly vacant seat. "Everything all right over here?"

"Fine."

They sat for a moment, Tom sipping from his own glass. "Miri's really missed it," Tom remarked, gesturing towards the clump of officers at the front of the room. "Being on duty. She's B'Elanna's kid all right. I think she would have gone back to work months ago if her ship had been ready."

Owen didn't bother to respond.

"Not me, though. I loved having so much time off when Miral was first born. We were so much busier when we had Joe, with the firm just starting up. I hated leaving him as much as I had to." Tom nudged Owen's knee with his own. "How about you? Do you still miss the 'Fleet? Being in the thick of it?"

"I guess I do," Owen said, watching his granddaughter work her audience. He'd hadn't liked it much, back when he'd been a captain — dealing with uptight Admirals and Federation Council members — but he'd been good at it. Miral was better. "Not the politics so much — the ass kissing, the back room deals. Never had much interest in that aspect of the admiralty. But I miss being a part of something. Feeling like I was contributing."

"Dad." Tom put his hand on his father's shoulder. "You're still-"

"Forget it," Owen snapped, upset with himself for rambling on so much. "Don't say anything. I know I had a good career, left my stamp on a lot of good works. I'm just being maudlin. Must be the champagne." He cleared his throat. "What about you and B'Elanna? The firm winding down OK?"

Tom and his wife had recently decided to close their ship design firm after nearly thirty-five years. Owen had been disappointed, of course, when they both chose to resign their commissions to start the company. But by then he'd learned his lesson far too well — that he couldn't ask Tom to want the same things he did, that he couldn't force his choices on his children. And he certainly couldn't argue with their success. Half the ship designs in the 'Fleet were their work, in addition to the many vessels they'd created for private companies.

Tom leaned back in his chair, not fighting his father on the rapid change of topic. "Yeah, things are going fine. We've got one more design to finish up — it's a new starship engine for the 'Fleet, actually — and then we'll be free and clear. Probably done by next month."

"It's a shame, really."

"What's that?"

Owen sighed, waving at where Miral was still holding court and Joe was apparently discussing baby burping techniques with Shovar. "That you couldn't pass it on to one of the kids. You and B'Elanna created something wonderful with that firm. I hate to see it just slip away."

But Tom only laughed. "Who would take over? Joe? He can't tell a hyperspanner from a hammer. Miri's too busy saving the galaxy. But one of our engineers, Ruka, started her own firm and took over a lot the contracts. B'Elanna trained her from right out of grad school. You'll still be able to see our influence here and there."

"But your name won't be out there anymore, won't be attached to the designs. Don't you find it depressing?" Owen persisted. "To see all your hard work slip away?"

Tom shrugged. "I guess I don't see it that way. Every Galaxy-class ship in the 'Fleet uses our modified transwarp drive. The runabout configuration I developed is still in use almost fifteen years later. We've got ships we've designed being used by planets as far away as the Delta Quadrant. The name doesn't matter to me as much as the work does."

"But what are you going to do now? With all your free time?"

"Get a good night's sleep?" Tom said with a grin. "Sit down for an entire meal with my wife and not get interrupted by an engineering emergency? Don't worry about us, Dad. I'm starting to do some holoprogramming again. And B'Elanna says she has about thirty years of books she wants to catch up on. Plus," he said, taking a sip from his glass, "she's taken up the _tIngDagh_."

Owen stared at his son, wondering if he was being serious. "The _tIngDagh_? Really?" He was nothing resembling fluent in Klingon — Julia had been the linguist in the family — but he could have sworn the _tIngDagh_ was one of the stringed instruments used in Klingon opera. The big one. The one that would likely tower over his daughter-in-law. Tom must be pulling his leg. But… Owen supposed it was possible. Maybe he had the word wrong. And B'Elanna _had_ become more immersed in Klingon culture over the years — especially after Miral and Shovar had met. He certainly didn't want to mock something she'd developed an interest in. "Well, I look forward to hearing her play, then."

His son burst out laughing. "It was a joke, Dad. Could you imagine? The _tIngDagh_ is taller than Shovar! It would probably knock B'Elanna over if she tried to pick it up."

"Oh," Owen said, shifting in his chair. It didn't grate on him the way it used to, back when Tom was growing up, but he simply did not get his son's sense of humor sometimes. Just another way they didn't understand each other, he supposed.

"She's going to teach a class at Stanford next semester," Tom said. "Plus she'll still do consulting work for our old clients, help out Ruka if she needs it. B'Elanna never stays still for long — no matter how much I ask her to."

Owen just nodded. Of course both Tom and B'Elanna would find a dozen different ways to keep themselves busy — just as Moira had her sculptures, and Kath had started writing a medical text when she had retired from practice. He envied his children in that way. Owen himself had been at such a loss when he knew he couldn't serve the 'Fleet anymore. Oh, the other Admirals had been polite about it — tossed him minor projects to supervise, asked his opinion on matters that were already settled. But the signs were all there. They'd done everything short of packing his office for him.

It hadn't been so bad, though, before Julia passed. They'd visited museums and parks together, did some off-world traveling. And that last year, of course, he'd been so focused on taking care of her. Trying to find a cure or a treatment that might work — until the girls and Tom and then finally Julia herself had told him he needed to stop. He was just making it harder for everyone. Owen sagged against his chair, suddenly exhausted. Why was this reception going on so long? He didn't remember them ever dragging on so.

"Dad? Are you OK?"

"Fine," Owen grunted, then realized with alarm that his eyes had started to tear. Damn champagne. He should have listened to Tom and never drank it. He blinked rapidly and turned his face away from his son, looking for something, anything else to look at.

"Dad," Tom said again. "There's actually something I've been wanting to discuss with you. We were talking the other day — Moira, Kath and me — and we were thinking it probably doesn't make sense for you to be in that big house all by yourself anymore."

 _It's finally happened_ , Owen thought. _My children are meeting without me, making decisions for me without even asking._ He could hear it already: It's a nice place, Dad. You'll be with people your own age. Well, screw that. Screw _them_ if they thought they could just lock him away and forget about him. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying went. Well, Owen didn't care what his children wanted. He was not giving up the house. He was not walking away from the place where he'd shared his life with Julia. They could pry him out of there when he was dead. "I'm not alone. I've got Jonathan. And Guang on the weekends."

"Yeah, Dad, I know, but they're only there during the day. What about overnight? I know it's hard to admit you need help, but if something unexpected happens and you can't—"

"That's enough, Thomas!" Owen barked. His face flushed when he realized the room had fallen silent. B'Elanna, Miral, everyone — they were all staring. _Damn it._ Owen sighed and dropped his voice. "I appreciate your concern, but I have no intentions of moving. And you and your sisters can't…" _make me_ , he almost said, before realizing that would give him as much credibility as a toddler.

Tom rubbed a hand through what was left of his hair. "Dad, no one wants you to move."

Owen looked more closely at his son. "You don't?"

"No," Tom said, blowing out his cheeks. "If you had let me finish, I would have explained that. We were just thinking… maybe B'Elanna and I can move in with you."

Well, this time Tom was clearly pulling his leg. "Very funny, son."

"Now he thinks I'm joking," his son muttered, shaking his head. "I'm serious. There's nothing keeping us in San Diego with the firm closing and the kids gone. It'll be easier for B'Elanna to get to Stanford, and besides — she's already fixed everything at our house. She needs some new projects." Tom reached over and put his hand on Owen's forearm. "I know this doesn't seem like the obvious choice, and I can understand if you don't want me there. It's your call, Dad. I just wanted to give it to you as an option. But we can look into a nighttime health aide, maybe, if that feels better for you. We just want you to be safe."

 _Not the obvious choice_ … How would he have reacted, Owen wondered, if someone had predicted this fifty years ago? If someone had said that Tom — the teenager he couldn't have a single conversation with without reaching the end of his patience, the troubled young man that he'd lashed out at because of Owen's own sense of failure and disappointment — would one day offer to move back home to make sure he was taken care of at the end of his life? He felt his eyes start to water again, but this time he did nothing to stop his tears. "Tom… I'm not sure what to say."

Tom was already standing, his gaze distant. "It's OK, Dad. I understand. We just thought since the house is so big, and it's not practical for Moira or Kath to move back to California… Forget it. It was a crazy idea. But I am going to look into having someone stay there at night with you, OK? Because —"

"Tom," Owen interjected again, but this time his voice was soft. "I meant, I'm not sure how to thank you. For the offer. Because if you really want this… If you and B'Elanna have talked this through and know it's what you want to do — then I'd like that. I'd like it if you came home."

Tom returned to sitting. "Yeah? You sure? B'Elanna will need a room to work in, but I can get some space in a hololab downtown, and we can just take my old bedroom if that's —"

Owen patted his son's knee. "We can work out the details later. This is supposed to be a celebration, you should get back to your guests."

"Grandpa!" Miral called out as she strode across the function room. "Why are you still sitting over here? Dad, go get his walker."

"Yes, ma'am," Tom said with a grin and mock salute.

Miral wrapped her arm around Owen's. "I'll help you," she said as she pulled him to standing. "Lean on me. Sorry about saddling you with Ensign Atitarn earlier. Between you and me, she's a twit. Her mother was one of my diplomacy profs at the Academy, and I promised I'd try to take her under my wing. Boy, was that a mistake."

Owen leaned heavily on his granddaughter and smiled at her cheerful complaining as they waited for Tom to return with the walker. He had no doubt that Captain Kim was right about Miral being one of the best tactical officers he'd ever served with — she had a well-deserved reputation as a fierce opponent in battle. Which made the fact that she was a such a chatterbox even more amusing to her grandfather. Even Tom could barely get a word in when Miral was on a roll.

"Here you go, Grandpa," Miral said once Tom rejoined them. She helped situate Owen with his walking aid. "We still need to get a family picture. Plus you have to help me with Uncle Harry. He's convinced the Cartwright Maneuver is superior to the Lusk Strategy in multi-starship combat situations."

"Blasphemy," Owen pronounced with a shake of his head.

"I know, right?" Miral replied as she moved to gather the rest of the family. "Uncle Harry! I told you! Grandpa thinks you're wrong, too!"

Owen followed his son's lead and headed towards the only spot in the room large enough to accommodate the entire Paris-Torres clan. "Tom," he said. "I meant it when I said I was grateful for your offer. I'd be happy to have you and B'Elanna at the house, but you do have to promise me one thing." He stopped and turned on whatever he had left of the Full Admiral Glare towards his son. "This is very important to me, so I need the truth, son."

Tom's brow creased but he shrugged in response. "Sure, Dad. Whatever you want."

The family had started to gather around them for the photo — Miral and Shovar, Joe and Aatto and little Milo, B'Elanna with her baby grandson asleep on her shoulder, even Harry Kim. Owen had to lean in to make sure Tom heard him. "Promise me you were just joking about the _tIngDagh_. I can't abide Klingon opera."

His son threw back his head and laughed. He was so like his mother.

* * *

Coming next week! **Unconditional**


End file.
